Recurring Dreams
by VGWrighte
Summary: It's the one that keeps her up at night.  Helen/John,  Magnitt, if you will .  Helen and Bigfoot friendship.  Final chapter uploaded.
1. Insomnia

Recurring Dreams

Rated: K+ to mild T for a bit of sensuality

Based upon Sanctuary, created by Damian Kindler

. . . ~ ~ . . .

She was never one for dreams. Sure, they were a delightful respite from the harsh reality of her everyday life.

But she never bought into them. She didn't believe in Freud's psychoanalysis. The man not only had but created the theory of the Oedipus Complex! She didn't like the way he had looked at her, the one time they had met. She was glad James was with her at the time.

When she had them - dreams - she enjoyed the frivolity and moved on. However, there was one that kept her up at night. For years, decades, it had been the same. In the last year or so, it had changed, not really becoming any worse, it had just changed.

She brought it upon herself, really. She couldn't help herself. Sometimes she would catch herself thinking about him sometime during the day, and then she wouldn't be able to stop. Her thoughts would drift to him all day and into the evening, the man he used to be.

He used to be . . . wonderful.

Then she would perform her nightly routine, and climb into that empty bed that seemed, at times, simply too giant for one person. And she would think of Ashley as a small girl, climbing into bed next to her. Sometimes there was so much wonder on her face.

_"Mummy,"_ she had asked once, _"why are we different?"_

_"From everyone else?" Helen replied, thinking of a good answer. "Because we're not afraid of what we don't understand."_

_"What are we afraid of?" she asked with big eyes._

_Helen kissed her forehead, thinking of a tall dark man who was not the man she had once thought he was. "What we know is dangerous."_

She would drift into sleep thinking of the family she should have had, but never did. Then the dream would come.

Often, she was sitting her office, doing something at her desk. She could never remember what, but that didn't really matter. She would look up when she heard that familiar sound, just in time to see the light whisping around and his form solidifying.

He wore a dark knee-length wool jacket, one that always reminded her of the Royal Navy, over a pair of dark slacks and a dark buttoned shirt. His dark hair was still long, but he had worked over the years to attempt to keep it in style. She would smile at him.

He would smile back, taking a few steps towards her desk. _"Any epic adventures in my absence?"_ he would ask with a measured amount of grandiose sarcasm.

She would shake her head gently. _"No, we managed."_

_"And where is my dearest daughter at this hour?" _he would look around, as if expecting to see her suddenly appear in the room_._

It was here, Helen always glanced out her window, noticing the city lights on the dark water. It was always later than she thought it should have been. _"She's out. She and Kate decided Will needed to learn what 'fun' was, and Henry decided to tag along."_

He would smile that delicious, mischievous smile of his._ "Well, Madam, it appears we have the residence to ourselves. Our own private _sanctuary_."_

She would always chuckle at his words. _"If only, but not quite."_

_"Ahh, yes," _he would partially sit on the front of her desk. _"the housekeeper, and all of your _friends._"_ He, of course, referred to the gentle giant and other abnormals.

She would smile and turn back to her work.

_"Helen,"_ he would almost whisper her name. She would look up through her lashes, meeting his blue eyes and dark gaze. _"I've been away from you for several days." _Across her desk, her John would offer her his hand.

Without another word from either of them, Helen would take it gently, loosely grasping only her John's fingers with her own, the way she had first ever held his hand. Then, familiar light would wisp around them and they would rematerialize in their bedroom. He would swing his arm around her swiftly enough to pull her tightly against him. Their polite hand grasp now blatantly mocked by his hand on her hip and hers on his chest.

Then, as dreams do, the situation lost its linear quality, and she would find herself on their bed with nothing on her but his skin. Her eyes would drift closed as her John did wonderful things to her. She would run her hand up his neck to where she found not locks of his thick hair, but bald skin. She would start at the surprise.

She would then freeze as cold flat metal found the skin at her neck. She never wanted to open her eyes, but she always did, seeing John's blood thirsty gaze.

He would smile, _"Now,"_ John would say with a small deal of amusement, _"just like one of the whores."_

She would wake. She would sit up slowly and turn on the light next to her bed, a few tears in her eyes.

Her John was no longer hers, but a madman. And her Ashley was dead.

Helen would always then get out of her large and empty bed, trade her nightclothes for something more decent and wander the halls of her sanctuary. She sometimes found herself in her library, perusing her books. She usually avoided Shakespeare. She always avoided "The Twelfth Night." She mostly found herself on the roof, standing on the parapet, overlooking the city, active lights filling a dark sky. Sometimes she was still amazed by the amount of light a city could create, and how it could cloud the stars.

Either way, her dear friend would find her before long. He seemed to have an extra sense regarding her insomnia. "You've read that," he would say if he found her in the library, or "What if you fell?" he would ask if she was on the roof. His words always seemed a little gruffer after she had had that particular dream, as if he knew.

"So I have," or "Then I would fall," she would reply depending on his question.

He would then offer her his _abnormally_ large and hair covered hand. "Let me make you some tea."

Helen would take his hand, gently grasping his fingers with her own, and he would lead her to her office where a steaming pot of tea would already be waiting. She suspected he always had one on hand, in case of emergency. She would release his hand and sit in the chair she favored.

He would pour her a cup, hand it to her, and sit on the arm of the settee opposite her chair. He would watch her as she sipped her tea, staring into the empty hearth. He never asked her, but she had a feeling he knew. He probably didn't know exactly what it was that haunted her, but she knew he had the general idea.

She would set down her tea when she was finished.

"Sleep Helen," the words would slowly roll out of his mouth, sounding exactly like the gentle giant he was. She would stand slowly and they would slowly walk to her room in comfortable silence. They would pause at the door.

"Thank you, dear friend," she would say.

He would gently put his hand to the side of her head, not daring to hit her like he did the others. She would give him a smile at his gesture, and place a kiss on his palm. "Good night." She would turn and enter her room.

"Good night," he would rumble in return, closing the door behind her.

She would dress again in her nightclothes and climb into the empty colossus that was her bed. She knew he put something in her tea to help her sleep. And she knew _he knew_ she knew. She would fall into a dreamless sleep. But that was okay, she wasn't one for dreams anyway.

. . . ~ ~ . . .


	2. Haunting Demons

Recurring Dreams

Chapter Two: Haunting Demons

Rated: K+

Based upon Sanctuary, created by Damian Kindler

Bigfoot / Helen friendship; Bigfoot / Ashley friendship/family

. . . ~ ~ . . .

At first, he had no idea what woke her in the night. All he knew was that there was a demon that haunted her, that much he could see. It took him a few years to learn what that demon was. After he lived with her for a few years and learned to identify the pheromones she produced, he knew what it was.

It was a man.

There was a man who kept her awake. He didn't know why this man kept her from her bed in the middle of the night. He didn't know what about this man and their relationship made her project fear, guilt . . . remorse . . . longing . . . However, it didn't matter.

It mattered that she did, and she needed comfort.

The first few times, he would just watch her during her bouts of insomnia. She would stand on the roof or sit in her library with a book. He would watch her, making sure she was alright.

However, once he realized it was a recurring event, he started making her tea. He mixed a few of his herbs in it to help her sleep a dreamless sleep. He knew she knew that he did. The fact that she never said anything to him about it let him know that she trusted and supported his judgment.

It was barely a year ago she sat in the library, waiting for him. It was the middle of the night. He had had a tea tray in his hand. He had poured her a cup. For the first time, she didn't take it. He sat down on the couch opposite her, waiting for her to speak.

_"You've lived here for thirty five years,"_ she had said. "_In that time, you have never once asked me about the demon which interrupts my sleep."_

He didn't respond. At the time, he wasn't sure if she expected him to or not, but he had nothing to say, so he let her continue.

_"When I was young, at studying at Oxford and still living in my father's home, I was part of a small group. We called ourselves The Five. We studied things that the college never would have recognized, never mind supported. One of the things we did was an experiment which turned me into who I am today. My gift was longevity._

_"Doctor Watson, of the Sanctuary in London, was gifted as well, with amazing powers of observation. Nigel Griffin became photosensitive. Nikola Tesla reacted most . . . completely, his genetic structure converting - or reverting - to a fully vampiric form,"_ she paused, composing herself.

Turning someone into a vampire would be a great demon. But the way she prepared herself to continue told had him that it was something much worse. He waited.

She had taken a deep breath before continuing. _"My fiancé, Montague John Druitt, developed the ability to turn his matter into energy and back, transporting himself over unimaginable distances in the blink of an eye. It also awakened something in him, something dark, something violent."_

Tears formed in her eyes, marking the first time he had seen her cry. This, he knew, was the specter that haunted her since he first met her, since long before.

_"He murdered eight women before he disappeared from my life, known and hunted by Scotland Yard as Jack the Ripper."_ She paused again, wiping the tears from her eyes. _"Before I knew about his darkness, I had learned of a light growing within me. I was pregnant._

_"When I learned that my John was no longer the man I thought he was, I stored the fetus cryogenically. To protect it. That was nearly a hundred years ago."_

Again she had paused, perhaps waiting his input, perhaps regathering her own thoughts.

_"It is a horrific dream of the monster that was once my fiancé that disrupts my sleep on so many nights. A dream that he comes home to me as he once was, but then becomes the monster I attempted to murder."_ Tears flowed down her face, quiet yet uninhibited. _"But, despite all that, he was once mine, and he fathered my child a lifetime ago._

_"I am going to bring the fetus to term. I am going to give life to my child, life that has been on hold for a hundred years."_ She wiped her tears again, a smile coming to her face. _"Things are going to change here at the Sanctuary, and I wanted to give you the option of staying or going."_

She fell silent, she was done with her piece, he knew. He had to respond now. _"I see this as no reason to leave,"_ he had said, the words lumbering off his tongue.

She then did something she had never done, and he had not expected. She got up, and sat down next to him, leaning into his side. He put his arm around her, and she took his hand.

_"Someone has to make sure you get your sleep, especially when the little one comes."_

He felt her release a small chuckle. _"Are you sure you're up to the challenge? Human women can be quite emotional, unpredictable, and unpleasant during pregnancy. Human infants are loud, messy, and needy."_

He squeezed her hand. _"I'm told pregnant humans have a 'glow' and human infants are adorable."_

She chuckled again. _"If you are planning to stay, I will have some tea and retire for the evening."_ She sipped the tea he had poured for her, not getting up from his embrace. When she finished the cup, she stood but motioned for him to stay. _ "Good evening, my friend."_ She walked away.

He turned to watch her leave. _"Sweet dreams,"_ he had called after her.

The demon still haunted her, though less frequently. Her pregnancy had not been as bad as she would have had him believe. Her mood and therefore pheromones had been inconsistent, to say the least. But now, as Doctor Watson tended to Helen, he held the small child in his now gigantic seeming hands, the smell of newborn human filling his nostrils. He could think of no greater thing in all of creation.

She was beautiful.

He knew that he, too, would be haunted by a demon, now. His demon being anything but the greatest fortune falling upon the greatest thing in his life.

He scoffed in his typical manner, causing the infant to wake and open her eyes. Her gaze held not fear, but complete trust and a strange sense of familiarity. It suddenly became his life's purpose to ensure no demon would ever haunt her; to ensure she was not plagued by the insomnia which so inflicted her mother and to protect her from any harm or discomfort.

It was then that he realized he was in love.

. . . ~ ~ . . .


	3. Few and Far Between

Recurring Dreams

Chapter Three: Few and Far Between

Rated: T for sensuality and violence

Based upon Sanctuary, created by Damian Kindler

Note: I've changed the rating of this entire story to "T."

. . . ~ ~ . . .

They were few and far between. He never knew when to expect them. They would come at absolutely random times, years apart, maybe a decade even, or only a few months.

They were days of sanity.

They were days that he was no longer the crazed killer that craved the blood of young women - that survived, _thrived_ on it, even. They were days that he was the man that Helen Magnus had fallen in love with so many years ago. They were the days that he was the "himself" that had been locked away behind the bloodlust and the rage.

They would always begin the same. He would wake and suddenly he wasn't angry. The dark shadow that lurked in his mind was gone. Memories of the dream which would always end the day - as well as the other atrocities he'd committed - would rush into his mind, and he would promptly empty the contents of his stomach.

After finally calming himself and allowing his breathing to steady and the sweat on his forehead to cool, he would admire the scenery. Where ever he was, he would look around and see it for it's beauty and not as a potential playground for the hunt.

Then he would think of his Helen. Sweet, beautiful, Helen.

He would transport himself to London and walk along the street where her father's home had been. The same street they would stroll along on Sunday afternoons. From the beginning of their courtship, to after their engagement, until long after the development of the more sinful nature of their relationship, they would walk. The last time they had done it, her arm was linked with his, her hand rested close to his wrist, appropriate for an engaged couple.

He would transport himself to Rome. He would walk along the banks of the Tiber for a short while before touring the city. He walked aimlessly, admiring the architecture Helen had so loved. He had brought her to Rome many times during their courtship. It was Rome where they had first sailed to heaven and back; charting a mutually unknown course together.

It had been an unnaturally warm summer night. He had meant to take her home hours before, but they had had a late dinner and time had gotten away from them. They decided to find lodgings for the evening and return to London the following day after some more time in the lovely city. Neither of them spoke Italian very well and had struggled through reserving a room at a small inn, but succeeded none-the-less.

_The gentleman who owned the establishment brought them to a single room on the top floor. John glanced somewhat nervously at Helen. The man had assumed they were married. But, what would have told him otherwise? She had a ring on her finger and they were unaccompanied in the small hours of the night._

_John thanked the man and locked the door, turning to find Helen standing on the balcony overlooking the city. He closed the distance between them and stood a pace behind her. Sensing his presence, she stepped back into him. Helen had reached down and pulled his arms around her. He was startled at first, standing stiff behind her. She was so relaxed, so comfortable, so trusting; he relaxed as well.  
_

_Some time later she turned and started advancing on him. She had a look in her eyes he had never seen before. He backed away from her, still somewhat nervous, tripping and falling onto the bed. She started removing her clothing, piece by agonizing piece. "Helen," he had managed to breathe._

_A sly smile spread across her face. "They do think we're married."_

_Afterwards, she lay half sprawled across his chest, her golden locks fanned over her back and his chest, her breaths slow and deep. Only the sheet covered them, protecting their sweat sheen skin from the breeze of the open balcony. His mind raced in terror. _

_What if her father found out? What if they couldn't get married soon enough? What if she changed her mind? What if it could never happen again?_

_"John," her voice interrupted his frantic thoughts, he had thought she'd been asleep. She placed a kiss on his sternum. "Ignore propriety for a moment and sleep."_

_"Of course, my dear," he whispered, unconvincingly he knew._

_She propped herself up on her elbows above him, her hair falling to curtain their faces. She gazed at him in the dim light. "Fear not, Mister Druitt, you'll make an honest woman out of me yet." She leaned down and placed a gentle kiss of his lips before returning to her place on his chest._

Her confidence and unwavering trust in him always moved him on days like these. Days which he was himself again.

Finally he would retire for the evening, knowing that before the sun rose he would become the monster again. At least, in his dreams he could hold her once more. So, he would lay down and allow himself to relax with thoughts of Helen drowning his senses. The dream would flood his mind, always the same.

He would teleport to the foyer of their home in London and hear voices from the study. Helen's and James'. They were discussing some part of their work. From what he could hear, they were both intensely involved in the conversation and did not hear him arrive. Well, James probably had, but was not revealing anything.

John would saunter into room, _"Good evening, my dear."_ He would reach for her hand, from behind the settee she sat upon, and brush his lips across it. He would deliberately avoid her wide eyed gaze; she would always be shocked to see him. He would then round the furniture and offer his hand to his friend.

_"Evening entertainment of my wife in my absence? Really, James, I thought we were better friends,"_ he would say with a good deal of joviality.

_"What can I say, John,"_ James would play along, _"I simply can't help myself when I see a gorgeous woman unattended."_

_"John,"_ Helen would greet him with her endearing lilt, a beaming smile encompassing her face. She would stand. _"James, if you would excuse us for a moment."_

James would always reply with a witty comment feigning their bad manners, and John would follow her to the foyer. She would stand intoxicatingly close to him, placing her hand on his chest and sneaking it underneath the lapel of his vest. _"Ask James to leave,"_ she would say in a dark, lustful tone just barely above a whisper, holding his gaze and complete attention.

_"Helen, we shouldn't be rude."_

_"You've been too long from my skirts,"_ she would whisper, leaning into him ever so slightly.

The brashness of her words made him want to teleport them to their bedroom instantly, leaving James to find his own way out. She had that effect on him.

The trance they would find themselves in would be broken by James. _"I know when I've overstayed my welcome."_

Helen would jump, ripping her hand from his chest and turning to James, a blush crowding her cheeks. _"Please, James, stay."_ Her modesty and embarrassment would temporarily cool her blood.

_"Your husband has been gone too long from your . . . _home._"_

Helen would blush, again, at his words.

James would place a kiss on her cheek and extend his hand to John, giving a firm and brief shake. _"Good night, my friends. I shall call tomorrow, perhaps a meal around one?"_

_"Sounds lovely,"_ Helen would reply, a hint of relief in her voice.

They would follow James to the door as he put on his hat and coat and leave their residence with a final "good evening." John would lock the door behind him and turn to Helen. She would reach for him, he would cup her cheek, and with an ounce of effort, they stood in their bedroom.

Then, as dreams do, the situation would lose it's linear quality, and he would be following her down onto their bed, clothed in nothing but the night. He would tangle one of his hands onto her long golden tresses and snake the other down her body. She would only release his lips to gasp for air.

Clasping her hands behind his neck, she would hold his face close to hers. _"I've missed you,"_ she would whisper before bringing his lips back to hers.

_"As have I, love,"_ he would whisper against her lips. And he had. He had missed her presence, her laugh, the sound of her voice, the feel of her warm skin against his. He missed the sounds of her labored breathing at times like these. He missed _her_.

Blood.

He wanted her blood. He needed her blood. He reached to the stand beside their bed and gingerly took hold of the knife there. He would have her blood.

John would fall to the control of the monster and watch as he cut his dear Helen apart with no remorse, only an addicted need for her blood to cover him, to soak their sheets.

Over and over, he would start anew. Somehow, she would be whole once again, the fiery passion in her eyes just waiting to be snuffed out by a few inches of well managed steel. Her screams would echo in his mind before she begun to drown in her own blood.

He would wake. The Ripper would kill again.

. . . ~ ~ . . .

~Fin~


End file.
